Thrift Shop Christmas
by lookslikeajobforthewinchesters
Summary: Neal lets loose in perhaps the absolute worst company possible. There is a Christmas party, too much vodka, probie bodyshots, and a poorly executed song and dance number. Also, hungover shame and horror. Crackfic.


AN: I wrote this around Christmas when my roommate got hooked on Thrift Shop by Macklemore. We love White Collar and immediately thought of Neal and his thrift shop experience from the Pilot. So…this is the product of a drunk Neal, a Christmas party, and bad rap music. Total crackfic.

: : : : :

This was a truly terrible idea.

Peter stood in the bullpen of the White Collar offices in New York and stared blearily at Neal Caffrey and Clinton Jones on the raised hallway in front of Hughes' office. It was the office Christmas party, but finances for things like that had been cut this year, so the whole office had gotten together and bought a lot of booze, too much disgusting fruitcake, and a karaoke machine. The entire team had proceeded to get completely wasted.

And, apparently, actually _use_ the karaoke machine.

Jones was still wearing his suit with some dignity (save a few wrinkles and a rather large beer stain), but Neal was a different story. He'd lost his jacket somewhere along the line and his shirt was halfway unbuttoned after he'd let some probies from Organized Crime take bodyshots off his bellybutton. He had his expensive Italian silk tie around his head like a sweatband, ends dangling over his left shoulder. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and he was only wearing one sock. His shoes had been MIA for several hours now.

Peter had never seen Neal this drunk. He'd seen Neal tipsy after an entire bottle of wine, but almost a litre of cheap vodka, several beers, and about a dozen shots taken from the bellybuttons of various White Collar employees – including Diana – had left him glassy-eyed and willing to desecrate his beloved suits in the name of the party.

"Hey-hey, everybody!" Neal shouted to the inebriated White Collar office. "Is everybody ready to_ get down_?"

Oh, Jesus.

Neal pressed a button, handed Jones a microphone, and grabbed his own. The music started and Neal and Jones had clearly worked out a hasty dance routine because they were both doing _something_ up there, hands above their heads and entire bodies moving in ways Peter had never, ever wanted to see.

Neal could _not_ dance. Jones wasn't bad. Neal was atrocious.

El laughed. Peter covered his face with his hands. Neal would regret this in the morning, he was sure.

Jones started to sing – or maybe it was an attempt at rap, Peter was unsure – and he was actually pretty good. "I'm gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket…I-I-I'm huntin', lookin' for a come-up…This is fucking awesome!"

It was a little funny, but Jones was pretty good at this. Neal was still floundering in an attempt to dance. Diana took pity on his inability to figure out where his body should go and joined him. They intertwined limbs and suddenly Neal knew what he was doing.

Neal started to…_rap_? At this point, Diana was barely able to guide him through some acceptable dance moves – she was laughing too hard – and Neal simply jumped around and did whatever he was doing into the microphone.

"Walk into the club like what up, I got a big cock – Nah I'm just pumped, I bought some shit from the thrift shop. The ice on the fringe is so damn frosty, the people like –"

"Damn, that's a cold-ass honkey!" Jones pitched in.

"Rollin in hella-deep headed to the mezzanine, dressed in all pink 'cept my gator shoes, those are green," Neal rapped – hysterically, in Peter's opinion. The probies were cheering him on, though, so Peter figured this must be a young person thing. "Draped in a leopard mink, girls standin' next to me - probably shoulda washed this…smells like R. Kelly's sheets…piss…"

Neal made a horrified face, as if he just realized what that line meant, but kept on going even as the entire room erupted into laughter at his expression. Jones had kept up a remarkable dance routine, looking very much the part of a rapper with style. Neal, on the other hand, looked like a drunken frat boy.

"But, shit, it was ninety-nine cents! If I get caught in it washin' it, 'bout to go and get some compliments, passin' off in those moccasins someone else has been walkin' in, but me and grungie fuck 'em in, I am stuntin' and flossin' in," Neal was getting more and more into his song and dance routine, doing some sort of jerky dance moves in time with Jones' and bobbing his head so the tie came around and smacked him in the face. "Savin' my money and I'm hella happy that's a bargain, bitch!"

Peter took a moment to wonder if this was entirely appropriate for an office party, particularly an FBI office party, but when Neal executed a perfect flip off the raised platform and landed amongst his fellow FBI workers, Peter gave up that train of thought. Let Neal learn about the ramifications of getting wasted at a Christmas party for himself.

"I'ma take your grandpa's style, I'ma take your grandpa's style – no for real, ask your grandpa, can I have his hand-me-downs? Velour jump suit and some house slippers, dookie brown leather jacket that I found," Neal's dancing was getting a little out of control. "They had a broken keyboard? I bought a broken keyboard! I bought a ski blanket then I bought a knee-board – hello, hello, my ace man, my mello! John Wayne ain't got nothin' on my fringe game – hello! – I can take some pro wings make em cool, sell those! The sneakerheads'll be like –"

"Ahhh, he got the velcros!" Jones was back again, doing some sort of dance that involved the railing of the platform as he braced himself against it to lean down and haul Neal back up to the top. It said something about Jones' weightlifting routine that Neal seemed to fly up and over the railing again and plop down on his feet without ever having come into contact with anything but Jones' hand. "I'm gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket…I-I-I'm huntin', lookin' for a come-up….this is fucking awesome!"

"Whatcha know 'bout rockin' the wolf on your noggin? Whatcha knowin' about wearin' a fur fox skin? I'm diggin', I'm diggin', I'm searchin' right through that luggage – one man's trash, that's another man's come up! Thank your granddad for donating that plaid button up shirt cause right now I'm up in her stuntin'! I'm at the Goodwill, you can find me in the I'm not – I'm not – I'm not searchin' in that section –" Neal spun around, shifting out of his previously wild flailing into an almost stock still position, holding up a fist and counting off, "Your Grammy, your auntie, your momma, your mammy…I'll take those flannel zebra jammies second hand – I rock that mothafucka! The built-in onesie with the socks on the mothafucka! I hit the party and they stop in that mothafucka! They be like 'oh! That Gucci, that's hella tight'! I'm like 'Yo! that's 50$ for a t-shirt…'"

Neal made the most hilarious fake confused face and the entire room – most of whom were dancing right along with Neal and Jones now – burst into laughter once again.

"Limited edition, let's do some simple addition…fifty dollars for a t-shirt, that's just some ignorant bitch shit! I call that getting swindled and pimped – shit! I call that getting tricked by a business. That shirt's hella dope and that be the same one that 6 other people in this club...is a hella don't! Peep game come take a look through my telescope…tryin' ta get girls from a brand and you hella won't…man, you hella wont…"

El was clutching onto Peter to keep herself upright as she witness Neal rapping. Peter was having trouble not choking on his beer as he watched Neal for himself, but El seemed to take great pleasure in Neal making a fool of himself.

Diana sang from the audience, "Goodwill! Poppin' tags! Yeah-ha-ha!"

Jones took up his part again and left poor Neal to gain his attention through unfortunate dance moves.

"I'm gonna pop some tags, only got 20$ in my pocket…I-I-I'm huntin', lookin' for a come-up…this is fucking awesome!" Jones sand and Neal danced horribly. Jones popped the collar on his suit jacket and continued to sing. "I'll wear your granddads clothes, I look incredible...I'm in this big ass coat from that thrift shop down the road…I'm gonna pop some tags, only got 20$ in my pocket…I-I-I'm huntin', lookin' for a come-up…this is fucking awesome!"

Jones and Neal both grabbed onto the railing and hopped over it in synchronized swings. They landed beside each other and took two deep bows. The office roared their appreciation – of a good few minutes of comedy, if nothing else.

"Thank you, thank you!" Neal cried out, whipping off his tie headband and tossing it into the audience. He was completely, entirely wasted and Peter thought it was quite entertaining to see his normally buttoned-down, smooth-talking CI so thoroughly uninhibited. "Diana, darling, are you sure you're not interest?"

"Yes, Caffrey," Diana told Neal for the twentieth time that night. "Not interested at all."

"You have a wonderful bellybutton, Lady Di," Neal winked at her and she swatted his hand away with a laugh. "I'm willing to drink things out of it anytime. You know where I am!"

He wiggled his eyebrows at her and pointed to the tracking device around his left ankle. She shoved him away, laughing, and he tumbled into Jones.

"Excellent work, my man!" he praised Jones, punching Jones' solid shoulder. Jones chuckled at Neal's antics until Neal turned and set his sights on a pretty probie from the HAZMAT Response Team.

"Caffrey is…wasted," Jones observed with a grin. Peter shook his head with embarrassment for his poor consultant. Tomorrow morning – never mind any time someone wanted to extort Neal within the office – would be interesting.

"Everybody!" Peter shouted to get their attention. "Did anyone happen to get that on camera?"

The whole office laughed and Ruiz from Organized Crime tossed a cellphone to Peter in an unusual show of good humour.

"The whole thing, Burke!" he shouted gleefully.

Peter sent himself the file with a maniacal grin on his face.

WCWCWCWC

"Peter? Elizabeth? Oh, god…"

That was all Peter heard after a loud thump and a groan from upstairs. He grinned to himself. Elizabeth smiled into her coffee.

There was some more thumping and then some dragging sounds. They looked over to see Neal drag himself into the kitchen, bracing against the wall the entire way.

"What…happened to me?" he asked forlornly, grabbing his hair. It was sticking up in every direction and his face was pale and eyes red. He was still wearing his half-buttoned shirt and wrinkled pants. He was also still shoeless and his single sock was blackened on the bottom. His tie headband was now around his neck, having slid down in his sleep. He looked wrecked.

Peter snorted and El inhaled a little bit of coffee and began coughing hysterically. Neal glared at them both.

"Peter, what happened?"

"It's up on YouTube, buddy," Peter smiled, pointing to the laptop. Neal moved forward warily and pressed play. As the video started and Neal heard himself sing 'Walk into the club like, 'what up, I got I big cock!'', he sank down into a chair and buried his head into his arms.

"Oh, shit," he groaned. He peered up at the screen with one eye and winced as he saw himself dancing. "Peter, how could you let me do this?"

"I tried to stop you," Peter admitted. "But you told me you had to express your views on the system through song and dance. What was I supposed to say to that?"

"You were supposed to say, 'Neal, do you really want to wind up on YouTube with," Neal squinted at the screen. "…70, 000 hits before breakfast?' That's what nice friends do."

"Oh, where's the fun in that?"

"Neal, sweetie, I thought you were great," El told him soothingly. "Maybe you didn't pick the best song to showcase your talents, but it was certainly entertaining."

"I sang about having a big cock in front of the entire FBI!"

"Well, to be honest, I think Hughes has made up about eighty percent of these views so far…"

"Peter!" Neal wined. "Not helping!"

"Would it help to know you propositioned Diana twenty one times, too?" El giggled, shoving some toast in Neal's direction.

"Oh, god!" Neal exclaimed. "Peter, you have to send me back to prison! It's a far better fate than whatever Diana has in store for me!"

"Enough with the drama, Neal," Peter grinned. "After all, not everything went horribly wrong."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm fairly certain you got engaged to a probie from Violent Crimes last night."

"What?"

"Can I come to the wedding?"

"What?"

"Can I plan it?" El giggled. Neal looked at them both, horrified.

"_What?_"


End file.
